That Saturday afternoon passed very pleasantly for both the sisters. Jacinth earned her aunt's commendation by her quick neat-handedness and accuracy, and a modicum of praise from Miss Mildmay meant a good deal. The little misunderstanding of the morning, ending as it had done in making the aunt, an essentially just woman, blame herself for hasty judgment, had drawn her and her elder niece closer together than had yet been the case. And no doubt there was a substratum of resemblance in their natures, deeper and more real than the curious capricious likeness which had struck Marmaduke so oddly—which was indeed perhaps but a casual coming to the surface of a real underlying similarity.
Things were turning out quite other than the young uncle in his anxiety had anticipated.
'If fate had sent me Jacinth alone,' thought Miss Mildmay, 'I rather think we should have got on very well, and have fitted into each other's ways. There is so much more in her than in Frances. I strongly suspect, in spite of her looks, that Jacinth takes after our side of the house—she almost seems older than Eugenia in some ways—whereas Frances, I suppose, is her mother over again.'
But here she checked herself. Any implied disparagement of her sister-in-law she did not, even in her secret thoughts,intend or encourage, for Alison Mildmay was truly and firmly attached to her brother's wife, widely different though their characters were.
'Frances is really only a baby,' she went on thinking. 'There's no telling as yet what she will turn out.'
Jacinth on her side was conscious of a good deal of congeniality between herself and her aunt. It was not the congeniality of affection, often all the stronger for a certain amount of intellectual dissimilarity, or differences of temperament, thus leaving scope for complementary qualities which love welds together and cements; it was scarcely even that of friendliness. It consisted in a certain satisfaction and approval of Miss Mildmay's ways of seeing and doing things. The girl felt positive pleasure in her aunt's perfect 'method;' in the clear and well-considered manner in which her time was mapped out; in the quick discrimination with which she divined what would be the right place and treatment for each girl in her club; even in the beautiful order of the book-shelves and the neat clerk-like writing of the savings-bank entries. It was all so complete and accurate, with no loose ends left about—all so perfect in its way, thought Jacinth, as she cut and folded and manipulated the brown paper entrusted to her charge for the books' new coats, rewarded by her aunt's 'Very nice—very nice indeed, my dear,' when it was time to go home, and she pointed out the neat little pile of clean tidy volumes.
Frances on her side had enjoyed herself greatly. She was the only outsider, otherwise day-scholar, at the garden tea, which fact in no way lessened her satisfaction while it increased her importance.
'I wish you were a boarder, Frances,' said Margaret Harper, the younger of her two friends, as they were walking up anddown a shady path in the intervals of the games all the girls had joined in. 'Don't you? It would be so nice, and I am sure we should be great,greatfriends—you and Bessie and I.'
'And not Jass?' said Frances. 'I shouldn't like to be a boarder unless Jass was too. Then, I daresay, I wouldn't mind.'
'We'd like to be friends with Jacinth too,' said Margaret, 'but Bessie and I don't think she cares very much about being great friends. She seems so much older, though she's only a year more than Bessie, isn't she?'
'She's fifteen,' said Frances. 'She is old in some ways, but still she and I do everything nearly together. She's very good to me. She's very nice about you, and I'm quite happy about having you and Bessie for my best friends, for Jacinth and Aunt Alison think you're the nicest girls here.'
Margaret coloured with pleasure, but with some shyness too.
'I'm glad they think we're nice,' she said; 'and I'm sure, if your aunt knew father and mother, they'd think weshouldbe far, far better than we are, at least than I am. I don't think Bessiecouldbe much better than she is. But a good many others of the girls are very nice indeed; they are none of them not nice, except that Prissy Beckingham talks too much and says rather rude things without meaning it, and Laura French certainly has a very bad temper. But she's always sorry for it afterwards. And who could be nicer than the Eves or Honor Falmouth.'
'I don't know them much; they're too big for me, you see,' said Frances. 'Of course I'd know them better if we were boarders. Do you like my gray frock, Margaret? It'sthe first day I've had on anything but black for such a time; it does feel so funny.'
'I think it's very pretty, and you've got such a beautiful sash!' said Margaret admiringly. 'But I always think you and Jacinth are so nicely dressed, even though you've been in black all the time. Bessie and I can't have anything but very plain frocks, you know. Mother couldn't afford it, for we're notat allrich.'
'I don't fancy we are, either,' said Frances; 'I shouldn't think papa would stay out in India if we were. But at Stannesley, where we lived before, granny always got us very nice dresses: she used often to send to London for them. I don't believe Aunt Alison will care so much how we are dressed. Do you have an allowance for your gloves, Margaret? We do. I got a new pair yesterday, but I'm afraid they're not very good; where are they, I wonder? Oh yes, here in my pocket; there are little whity marks in the black kid already, as if they were going to split.'
She drew the gloves out, as she spoke, but with them came something else—a doubled-up, rather soiled white card.
'What's this?' said Frances, as she unfolded it. 'Oh, I declare! Just look, Margaret—it's an old Christmas card of last year. I remember one of the children gave it me at the Sunday school, and I've never had this frock on since. Isn't it strange?'
She stood looking at the card—an ordinary enough little picture of a robin on a bough, with 'Merry Christmas' in one corner—a mixture of sadness and almost reverence in her young face. 'Last Christmas' seemed so very long ago to Frances. And indeed, so much had happened since then to change things for herself and her brother and sister, that it did naturally seem like looking back to the otherside of a lifetime to recall the circumstances which then surrounded them. How well she remembered that very Sunday, the last of the old year; how they had chattered and laughed as they ran home over the frosty ground, and Uncle Marmaduke, who had just joined them, had predicted skating before the week was out! How tenderly granny had kissed them that night when they went to bed, with some little remark about the ending of the year, and how the next morning she was not well enough to get up, anxious though she was in no way to cloud or damp their enjoyment; and how the doctor had begun to come every day, and then—and then——The tears started to Frances's eyes as she seemed to live through it all again, and for a moment or two she did not speak; she forgot that Margaret was standing beside her with sympathising face.
'Dear Frances,' she said, 'does it remind you of something sad? Has it to do with when you went into mourning?'
'Yes,' said Frances, 'it was soon after last Christmas that granny—our grandmother that we lived with—got ill and died, you know, Margaret. It's for her we are still in mourning.'
'And you were very fond of her, of course?' said Margaret.
'Very,very,' said Frances.
Then she almost seemed anxious to change the subject: she was afraid of beginning to cry, which 'before all the girls' would have certainly been ill-timed. And her glance fell on the card in her hand.
'Robin Redbreast,' she said consideringly. 'Margaret, have you ever passed that lovely old house, down the lane on the Crickthorne Road, that's called "Robin Redbreast?" The bird on the card reminded me of it just now.'
'Oh yes,' said Margaret rather eagerly. 'I know it quite well. Once or twice Bessie and I have stood at the gate and looked in. Isn't it a delicious quaint old place?'
'It's perfectly beautiful,' said Frances. 'You can't think what it looks like from the inside.'
'Have you ever been inside?' questioned Margaret, evidently intensely interested. 'Do tell me about it.'
Frances glanced round, as if to make sure that no one was within hearing, partly perhaps from a feeling that Jacinth would not have liked her to go 'chattering' about their yesterday's adventure, partly from a childish love of importance and mystery.
'Is it anything you shouldn't tell me, perhaps?' said Margaret, with quick delicacy. 'Don't mind my having asked you; it wasn't—it wasn't exactly curiosity, Frances.'
And Frances, glancing at her friend, saw that her face had reddened all over. Margaret was not a pretty child, but she was very sweet-looking, with honest gray eyes and smooth brown hair. Her features were good, but the cheeks were less round than one likes to see at her age; there was a rather wistful expression about the whole face, almost suggesting premature cares and anxiety.
'Oh no, dear,' said Frances reassuringly. 'It's not that. Itwasrather queer, and you see we weren't quite sure at first how Aunt Alison was going to take it. And Jacinth is always rather down upon me for talking too much. But I know I may tellyou, for it's quite fixed that you and Bessie are to be my best friends: it's the day-scholars that Aunt Alison doesn't want me to talk much to.'
'Yes,' agreed Margaret, 'I quite understand.'
And then Frances related the whole, Margaret listening intently till almost the end.And then Frances related the whole, Margaret listening intently till almost the end.
She was in a fever, poor child, and from no selfish motive assuredly, to hear more about the mysterious house. But she restrained herself, scrupulously careful in no way to force the other's confidence.
'When I said what Robin Redbreast looked like from the inside, I meant from inside the gates,' began Frances, after a moment or two's reflection. For she was scrupulously truthful. 'I've not been inside the house—not farther than the porch. But the porch is like a little room, itisso pretty. I'll tell you how it all was; you may tell Bessie, but not any one else, because, you see, there's quite a story about it.'
And then Frances related the whole, Margaret listening intently till almost the end, when the little narrator, stopping for a moment to take breath, after 'So you see our grandmother was her very dearest friend, and she really seemed as if she could scarcely bear to let Jacinth go, and—isn'tit like a real story?' saw, to her surprise, that her hearer's face, instead of being rosier than usual, had now grown quite pale.
'Why, Margaret, what's the matter? You look as if I had been telling you a ghost-story, you're so white,' she exclaimed.
Margaret gave a little gasp.
'It is so strange,' she said. 'I'll tell you why it has made me feel so queer. Mine is a sort of a secret, Frances; at least when we came here to school mother told us not to talk about it. But I know I can trust you, and what you've told me makes it seem as if somehow—I don't know how to say what I mean—as if we must be a sort of relation to each other, from our people long ago having been such friends. For, do you know, Frances, Lady Myrtle Goodacre is our aunt—our great-aunt, that is to say—father's own aunt?'
Frances stopped short andalmostclapped her hands.
'There now,' she said, 'I had a feeling there was something like that. IwishJacinth hadn't stopped my speaking of you, when Lady Myrtle told us her name used to be Harper.'
'Were you going to speak of us?' asked Margaret.
'Yes, it was on the very tip of my tongue. Indeed I believe I did get as far as "There are some," when Jacinth stopped me. She said afterwards that it is "common," when any one mentions a name, to say immediately, "Oh,Iknow somebody called that." I don't quite see why it should be common; it's rather interesting, I think. Still I daresay it's true that common people often do speak like that, when you come to think of it. They've always got an aunt, or a cousin, or a friend's friend called so-and-so, or living somewhere, if you mention a place.'
'I daresay they do,' said Margaret; but she seemed to be giving only half her attention. 'Frances,' she went on, 'I wonder what would have happened if youhadspoken of us? I wonder if Lady Myrtle would have taken any notice?'
Frances stared.
'Of course she would!' she exclaimed. 'Do you mean to say she wouldn't have taken any notice of hearing that her own grand-nieces were so near her? Why, she'——But suddenly the actual state of the case struck her. 'Do you—does shenotknow you're here?' she went on, raising her blue eyes in bewilderment to Margaret's face. 'No, I suppose she doesn't, or of course you would be asked to Robin Redbreast on holidays and all that sort of thing.'
'No,' Margaret replied, 'she doesn't know anything about us. I'm not even sure that she knows of our existence;anyway she has never heard our names, or how many of us there are, and I can't believe she really understands how—how very poor we are. For she is very, very rich, you know, Frances, though she lives in that quiet way.'
'Isshe?' said Frances. 'I do wish I had spoken of you, whether it was "common" or not.'
'She mightn't have thought that we were any relation,' said Margaret, simply. 'Harper isn't a very particular name. And you see we're not very near to the head of the family now. Lord Elvedon is only father's cousin, and they never stay near here. Father and mother see them sometimes in London, but they've got a very large family, and they're not rich—notextrarich themselves; for the one before this Lord Elvedon, the one who was father's uncle, you see, was very extravagant, though it was mostly his brother's fault—that was our grandfather. His name was Bernard Harper, and'——
'It's awfully interesting,' said Frances, 'but I'm afraid I'm getting rather muddled. Yourgrandfather—what was he, then, to Lady Myrtle?'
'I'll begin at the other end,' said Margaret; 'that will make it plainer. There was a Lord Elvedon who had two sons and a daughter; the daughter was Lady Myrtle. The sons were younger than the daughter, and they were both extravagant. The elder one was a weaker character than his brother, and quite led by him, and before their father died they had already wasted a lot of money, and given him a great deal of trouble, especially Bernard, the second one. So old Lord Elvedon left all hecouldto his daughter, Lady Myrtle; of course the estates and a good deal had to go with the title, but still the new Lord Elvedon was much less rich than he should have been, you see, and our grandfather—thatwas the son called Bernard—was really poor, and his children, our father and his sisters, have always been poor. Father says a good deal will go back to the title when Lady Myrtle dies, and she is quite friends with the present Lord Elvedon, her nephew. But she couldn't bear her brother Bernard—I believe he behaved very badly to her and to all his people—and she has never taken the least notice of father, though father is really a sort of an angel;' and Margaret's eyes glistened. 'You know it is like that sometimes,' she went on; 'a bad father—and I am afraid our grandfather was a bad man, though I don't quite like saying it—sometimes has very good children.'
'But Lady Myrtlecan'tknow about you all—about your father especially,' said Frances. 'I think he should write to her, or do something. Very likely she's got quite wrong ideas about him.'
'No,' said Margaret, 'she must know he is a very good man. He was in the army, you know, like your father, and he was very brave and did lots of things, but he had to leave because of a wound, when he was only a captain. When he and mother married he hoped to stay on till he became a general, and at first they weren't so badly off, for mother had some money. But a good deal of it was lost somehow.'
'I do think Lady Myrtle should be told—I really do,' said Frances, stopping short and speaking with great energy.
But Margaret only shook her head.
'She does know a good deal,' she said. 'We are sure she does, for some years ago my aunt—that's father's only sister—the other died quite young—wrote to her about us. Aunt Flora isn't badly off in a way, for she has no children, and herhusband is a judge in India. But she can't do much for us, and—you see it's her husband's money; it isn't as if it was a relation ofours.'
Frances had never thought of things in this way; she was years and years younger in mind, or rather in experience and knowledge of life, than Margaret Harper, her junior by nearly twelve months. For Margaret with her older brothers and sisters had early had to face practical difficulties and troubles, the very existence of which was unknown to her young companion.
'It's a shame—a regular shame; that's what it is!' said Frances vehemently, her face flushing with indignation, 'and something should be done.'
Just at that moment a figure came running towards them. It was Bessie, the elder of the Harper girls.
'Margaret, Frances, where have you been? what have you been doing all this time?' she exclaimed. 'We've had ever so many games, and now tea will be ready directly. What are you looking so mournful about, Margaret, and you so excited, Frances? You haven't—oh no, you couldn't have been quarrelling.'
The smile on both faces was sufficient answer—no, certainly they had not been quarrelling!
'What have you been talking about, then?' said Bessie again, and she looked at them with considerable curiosity.
Bessie was two years older than her sister. She was handsomer too, and much stronger. There was a bright, fearless, resolute look about her, very attractive and prepossessing. But she was less intellectual, less thoughtful, more joyous and confident, though tenderly and devotedly unselfish to those she loved, especially to all weak and dependent creatures.
'Margaret has been telling mesuchinteresting things,' began Frances eagerly.
'And Frances has been tellingmeabout—about Lady Myrtle and Robin Redbreast. Just fancy, Bessie, they know her! She was a very, very old friend of their grandmother's.'
And between them the two girls soon put the elder one in possession of all they had been discussing.
Bessie Harper's bright face grew grave; she could not blame her sister and Frances, but still, on the whole, she almost wished the discovery had not been made, though 'it was bound to come some time or other, I suppose,' she reflected.
'I call it a perfect shame!' said Frances, her cheeks flaming up again. 'To think of that horrid old woman having more money than she knows what to do with, and keeping it all to herself, when itreallybelongs—a good part of it, at least—to your father.'
'No, no,' said Bessie, 'we can't say that. Our great-grandfather had a right to do what he did with his money. And if hehadleft it to our grandfather, it would all have been wasted, most likely.'
'If he had known how goodfatherwas going to be, he'd have left it to him, I daresay,' said Margaret.
'He couldn't have known that,' said Bessie with a merry laugh. 'Father wasn't born when he died.'
'No, but just because of that, Lady Myrtle should make up for it now,' said Frances. 'I daresay I shouldn't call her "horrid," and of course she's your aunt, and I can scarcely believe shedoesknow all about you. Perhaps she never got your other aunt's letter.'
'Oh yes, she did,' said Bessie. 'She answered it by sendingit back with a note saying that none of the descendants of the late Bernard Harper were kith or kin of hers.'
'How wicked!' exclaimed Frances.
'No, no, it's not right to say that, Frances dear,' said both sisters. 'Father says,' Bessie went on, 'that no one knows what her brothers made her suffer, and how good she was to them, standing between them and her father, and devoting herself to them, and hoping against hope, even about our grandfather, till I suppose shehadto give him up. It is awfully sad, and for her sake as well as ours, mother and I have often said how we wished she knew father. He would make up to her for the disappointment in her brothers.'
'Isn't Lord Elvedon nice?' asked Frances; 'that's her other nephew, isn't he?'
'Oh yes, I think he's a good sort of a man, but not clever,' said Bessie. 'Not likefather.'
'And then our boys,' added Margaret. 'They are so good and so clever.'
Her pale little face flushed with rosy pleasure.
'How nice!' said Frances, with ready sympathy. 'How many brothers have you?'
'Two big—older than we are, and one little one of eleven. There are six of us,' Margaret replied.
But just then came the sound of approaching voices.
'Bessie, Bessie, where are you? Haven't you found them? Tea's quite ready.'
And Bessie started. She had forgotten the errand on which she had come.
'Oh, we must be quick!' she said. 'That's Honor and the others calling us; I forgot how the time was going. But Frances, I must speak to you for a moment before you go. Don't forget.'
And then the three ran off to rejoin their companions.
Never had Frances enjoyed herself more, her only regret being that Jacinth was not there to share her pleasure. There was the element of novelty to add zest to the whole, and then as the 'boarders' looked upon her as in some sense their guest, they vied with each other in making much of her—for her own sake too, for Frances was a great favourite, a much greater favourite than her sister, among their companions. It is to be doubted if Frances would have enjoyed herself quite as much had Jacinth been with her. For not only did Jacinth's rather cold, stand-off manner destroy any geniality towards herself; it often acted on Frances as a sort of tacit reproach to her own overflowing spirits.
And through all the little girl's fun and merriment thereran the consciousness of the trust reposed in her by the Harpers. She was full of intense interest in their family history; it was really quite like a story in a book, she kept saying to herself, and she felt bursting with eagerness to relate it all to Jacinth.
How good and delightful they must all be, Bessie and Margaret's father and mother, and brothers and sisters! It was easy to believe it, the girls were so nice themselves! How lovely it would be if, somehow, she, or Jacinth and she, could be the means of healing the family breach and introducing her relations to Lady Myrtle, so that in the end they might be restored to their lost rights. For 'rights' Frances was determined to consider them, in her vehement young judgment and hot partisanship of her friends.
'It is not fair or just!' she said to herself; 'it is shameful that they and their father should suffer for theirgrandfather'sfault. But nobody could help seeing how good they are: if only Lady Myrtle knew them it would all be right. I wonder how would be the best way to tell her? Jacinth will know—she is so much cleverer than I, and then she is sure to be Lady Myrtle's favourite. I am glad she is, for in spite of what Bessie and Margaret say, I don't feel as if I could ever like that old lady.'
And her eagerness to go home and talk it all over with 'Jass,' made her, notwithstanding her enjoyment of the afternoon, scarcely sorry when one of Miss Scarlett's servants came out to tell her that her maid had called to fetch her.
She said good-bye to her companions and ran in for a moment, by old Miss Scarlett's special desire, to the drawing-room, where the ladies were sitting. They kissed her affectionately.
'I've been so happy,' she said. 'We've had such beautiful games; I've not had such fun for ever so long.'
'I am so glad, my dear child,' said the eldest lady, and she smoothed the little girl's soft hair. 'You must come again and see something of your companions out of lesson hours as well as in the schoolroom.'
Frances's eyes sparkled with pleasure.
'I would like it very much,' she said.
'What is your sister about this afternoon?' said Miss Marcia. 'Perhaps she does not care so much about games and romping as you do?'
'No, she doesn't,' replied Frances, bluntly. 'This afternoon she's gone with Aunt Alison to the girls' club.'
'Very nice,' said Miss Scarlett, approvingly. 'Jacinth is a thoughtful girl and older than her years, in some ways. Is she interested already in Miss Mildmay's good works?'
The old lady was pleased to hear of any bond of sympathy likely to draw the aunt and niece together, for much as she respected Miss Mildmay, she had had strong doubts of her fitness for the charge of the girls, and considerable misgivings as to their happiness with her. And Miss Scarlett was old-fashioned, and but for her native kindliness ofheartshe might almost have been prejudiced and narrow-minded. She scarcely belonged to the present generation. Her youth had been passed in a somewhat restricted groove, where the Lady Bountiful notions of benevolent work among the poor were still predominant. Her sisters, a good many years her juniors, had to a certain extent assimilated modern ideas.
Frances hesitated. She could not bear in the least to decry her dear 'Jass,' and yet she knew that her sister had so far troubled her head very little, if at all, about her aunt's girls' club or other philanthropic undertakings.
'Aunt Alison doesn't tell us much about all these things,' she said. 'To-day was the first time she asked Jacinth to go with her, but Jass was very pleased indeed, and I'm sure she'll like to be of use.'
Miss Scarlett smiled. She was quick of perception in some ways; she understood the little girl's loyal admiration of her sister, and again she patted her fair head.
'Well,' she said, encouragingly, 'sometimes, I hope, Jacinth may like to spend a holiday afternoon with us. But tell her and your aunt from me, that if ever they are at a loss what to do withyou, Frances, Miss Mildmay must let me know. We can manage a good run in the garden even in wintry weather, and therearesuch things as blindman's-buff and hide-and-seek in the house sometimes.'
'Thank youverymuch,' said Frances. 'I think—I would like to come sometimes on Saturdays, for, besides going with Aunt Alison, I shouldn't wonder if—I daresay Jass may have often to go'——She stopped and hesitated, and finally blushed. 'I don't think I can explain,' she said.
'Never mind, my dear,' said Miss Marcia, coming to the rescue, with a vague idea that perhaps Jacinth had some private charities of her own in prospect which she did not wish talked about. 'Give Miss Scarlett's message to your aunt and sister, and good-bye till Monday morning.'
Frances ran off, much relieved in her mind.
'But I really must be careful how I talk,' she reflected sagely. 'I had quite forgotten that I wasn't to chatter about Lady Myrtle—except to Bessie and Margaret. Jacinth said I might really count them my friends, and that means being able to tell them anything I like. Besides, how could I have helped telling Margaret about Lady Myrtle, when she told me all the story of her being their great-aunt?'
Her conscience nevertheless was not absolutely at rest, and joined to her eagerness to tell her sister all she had heard of the Harpers' family history was now a slight fear of Jacinth's considering her indiscreet, and she was so preoccupied that, as she hurried out to the hall, where Phebe was waiting, she almost ran against Bessie, who was eagerly watching for her.
'Frances,' she said, 'I must speak to you a moment. I asked Miss Linley, and she let me run in, and she said I might walk down to the gate with you.' There was rather a long drive up to the door of Ivy Lodge. 'Listen, dear; it's this. I can't bear to ask you to keep anything a secret from your aunt or your sister, butsometimessecrets may be right, if they concern other people and are not about anything in any way wrong. And I don't see what else to do. It is this—would you mind promising me not to tellanybodyabout Lady Myrtle Goodacre being our relation, till I have written home to mother and told her that you and Jacinth know her, and about your grandmother having been her dear friend? I amsoafraid of doing harm, or vexing father, for though he is so good, he is—very proud, you know, and—he could not bear it to—to come round to Lady Myrtle that we were talking about her, or—thinking about her money.'
Bessie's face by this time was crimson. Frances opened her mouth as if about to speak, then shut it again, and gazed at Bessie with a variety of contradictory feelings looking out of her blue eyes. There was disappointment, strong disappointment that her wonderful schemes for bringing the Harpers and their old relative together threatened thus to be nipped in the bud; there was disappointment, too, that she was not to have the pleasureand importance of relating the story 'just like one in a book' to her sister; and yet there was considerable relief, born of her recently aroused misgiving as to how Jacinth would look upon her confidences with Margaret.
Bessie meanwhile stood looking at her in undisguised anxiety.
'It doesn't matter a bit about Aunt Alison,' Frances at last blurted out. 'We're not at all bound to tell her everything; mamma knows she wouldn't understand or take the trouble to listen. And so, when we came here, mamma said we must just do the best we could. I've always told Jass everything, and we write long,longletters to mamma. We tell her—at least I do—everything that puzzles us, even things I can't understand about—about religion,' and here Frances grew red. 'Though that'sonething that's better here than at Stannesley; the Bible classes are so nice.'
'But Frances,' repeated Bessie, 'about not telling Jacinth? It is only till I write to mother and get her answer. And I'm not asking you to hide anything wrong; it's really our own family affairs.'
'I know,' said Frances. 'No, I don't think it could be wrong to promise.'
'Put it this way,' said Bessie: 'suppose you had, by some sort of accident, overheard anything about other people, you wouldn't at all think you were bound to tell Jacinth. Well, you see it was alittlelike that; Margaret shouldn't by rights have told you without asking mamma.'
'I see,' said Frances. 'Well then, Bessie, I promise not to tell anybody till you give me leave. Only, you won't count my writing it all to mamma? I write the most ofmy weekly letter to her on Sunday, so I'd like to know, because to-morrow's Sunday, you see.'
'Of course,' said Bessie with the utmost heartiness, 'of courseyou must write everything to your mother, just as I shall to mamma. Thank you so much, dear Francie, for understanding so well. And—and—just one other little thing—don't you think, just now, it will be better for you and Margaret not to talk about Lady Myrtle to each other? I mean if she invites you to Robin Redbreast and you go, I don't think you'd better tell Margaret. She's not very strong, and she thinks of things so, once she gets them in her head. She's different from me. I can put them right away.'
And Bessie gave herself a little shake and stood there, all the anxiety gone out of her face, bright, fearless, and handsome as usual.
Frances, however, gave a little sigh.
'Very well,' she said, 'I won't speak about it any more to Margaret if you think I'd better not. But it's rather hard not to have any one I can tell about it, when I've been so interested.'
And Frances's face grew very doleful.
Bessie Harper looked and felt sorry for her. She knew what a warm faithful little heart she had to do with, and unaware as she was of Frances's slight fear of Jacinth's displeasure, she perhaps overestimated the trial it was to the younger sister to be debarred from giving her confidences to the elder one.
'I'm very sorry,' she said, sympathisingly. 'I really am very sorry indeed. But still I'm sure it's better for Jacinth not to know about it till I hear what mother says. You see shemaybe invited to Lady Myrtle's anyday, and if anything about the Elvedons or our family was said, it would be impossible for her not to feel uncomfortable and—and—not open, you know, unless she told what Margaret told you, and that might be just what father would dislike.'
'And supposeIgo to Robin Redbreast too,' said Frances, 'what am I to do?'
'I thought you said Jacinth was the one who would go,' said Bessie.
'Oh well,' replied Frances, who had raised the difficulty partly out of half-petulant contradiction, 'I am pretty sure it will be Jass. I don't think Lady Myrtle noticed me much, and I don't want to go. I don't like her; at least I don't care about her unless she could be made nice to you. And any way she wouldn't askmequestions, even if by chance she did hear your name'——
'And Jacinth isn't the least likely to speak about us, as things are. So it's all right; and any way, Frances, you can write a very long letter to your mother to-morrow.'
'Yes,' the little girl agreed. 'That's better than nothing; only, just think of the weeks and weeks before I can get an answer! Whatever other troubles you have, Bessie, youarelucky to have your father and mother in England, and to know them. I don't know mamma for myself a bit; only by her letters, and because I just feel shemustbe very good and kind. When I was very little it seemed something like—no, perhaps you wouldn't understand'——
'I think I would,' said Bessie, who was eager to make up by every means in her power for any distress she was causing to her friend. 'Tell me.'
'I was only thinking what queer feelings children have,' said Frances. 'When I was little, before I had ever seenmamma—of course I can remember her since the time Ididsee her, five years ago, and since then she has seemed real—but before that, it was only a kind of faith. Writing letters to her was a very little—don't think it's naughty of me to say it—a very little like saying our prayers. They went out, away to somewhere, to some one I'd never seen; just like, you know, when we pray.'
'Yes,' said Bessie gently, 'but the answers came.'
'I know,' replied Frances simply. 'And sometimes I think it helped to make me feel that there is somethingrealin saying our prayers. But I must go.'
'And so must I,' said Bessie. 'And thank you, dear Francie.'
She kissed the little face affectionately, and then hastened back to her companions.
'I do love Frances,' she thought. 'Somehow, I don't feel as if I could ever love Jacinth quite as much. I do hope all this won't bother the poor little thing. I should make Margaret unhappy if I blamed her for having told Frances, and I scarcely see how she could have helped it. It isn't as if we were in disgrace,' and Bessie threw back her head proudly. 'We have no secrets: father's whole life and character aregrand; and rather than have that horrid old Lady Myrtle—there, now, I'm calling her just what I told Frances she mustn't—rather than have her thinkingwewant her money, I'd—I don't know what I wouldn't do. If only'——And here poor Bessie's heroics broke down a little. There came before her a vision of 'father' with his crutch—for he had been wounded in the hip and was very lame—with the lines of suffering on his face, showing through the cheery smile which it was seldom without; and of 'mother' in her well-worn black poplin,which she used to declare was 'never going to look shabby,' planning and contriving how to send the two girls, neatly and sufficiently provided for, to school, when the wonderful chance of a year at Miss Scarlett's had so unexpectedly come in their way.
Bessie's eyes filled with tears.
'I'd do anything for them,' she thought. 'I'd go to be Lady Myrtle's companion or lady's-maid oranything, if it would do any good. It's all very well to be "proud," but I'm afraid my pride would melt very quickly if I could see any way to help them. But I'm glad I stopped Frances talking about it; it really might have done harm. I must write a long letter to mother. I wonder if I can begin it to-night?'
Frances, escorted by Phebe, made her way home in greater silence for some minutes than was usual with her. She was revolving many things in her fluffy little head.
'Had they come in when you started to fetch me?' she inquired at last of the maid.
'Not yet, Miss Frances. Miss Mildmay gave me orders to go for you at half-past six, before she went out. But I don't think they'll be long. Late tea is ordered for half-past seven, and Miss Mildmay is never behind time on Saturday evenings.'
'I don't mind whether they're in or not—not much,' said Frances. 'I don't want any more tea. I suppose Eugene has had his?'
'Yes, Miss Frances, his tea and an egg. He was very pleased. Master Eugene does enjoy a nice boiled fresh egg. I think you'll have to go down to late tea, though, Miss Frances; perhaps Miss Mildmay wouldn't be pleased if you didn't; and perhaps'——
'Nonsense, Phebe,' said her young mistress; 'Aunt Alison doesn't care. You speak as if she was like a mamma, wanting to have us beside her always. She's had Miss Jacinth all the afternoon, and she likes her better than me. I'm sure she wouldn't care if she never saw me again. Well, no; perhaps I shouldn't say that, for she's quite kind. She was very kind about letting me go this afternoon, and sending you to take me and to fetch me, Phebe.'
'Yes, Miss Frances,' began Phebe, again with some hesitation, 'it was just that I was thinking about. If you go down to tea just as usual, nice and neat, it'll make it more likely that she will let you go again. It will show that a little change now and then will do you no harm, nor get you out of regular ways, so to say, Miss Frances.'
'Very well,' the child agreed; 'I don't care much one way or another. Oh Phebe,' she went on, brightening up again—it would have been difficult to depress Francie for long—'we had such fun this afternoon;' and she went into some particulars of the games, which Phebe listened to with great interest. 'I wish Aunt Alison wouldsometimeslet us have friends to play with us. We could have beautiful "I spy" in the garden.'
'Yes, Miss Frances, so you could,' agreed Phebe.
'You see at Stannesley there were really no children, no girls any way near our age except the Vicar's daughter, and though she came to have tea with us sometimes it wasn't much pleasure—notfun, at least. She's a little older than Miss Jacinth, and oh, Phebe, she's soawfullydeaf. It's almost like not hearing at all.'
'Poor young lady!' said Phebe, sympathisingly.
'Yes, isn't it sad? And so, you see, the one thing we were glad of about coming here—I was, any way—was about goingto school; just what some girls wouldn't have liked. I've always wanted so to have some companions, only it isn't half as much good having them if you only see them at lessons. I don't think Miss Jacinth minds. She was pleased to go to school because of learning better and finding out how much other girls know compared with us, but I don't think she minds the way I do.'
She had almost forgotten whom she was speaking to, or indeed that she was speaking aloud, and half started when Phebe replied again to this long speech.
'It's just because of that, Miss Frances,' said the girl, 'that I was thinking how nice it will be if you're invited sometimes to play with the young ladies of a holiday afternoon like to-day. And if I were you, I'd take care to show Miss Mildmay that it doesn't unsettle you, and I'd just put out of my mind about having any young ladies to come to you. It'd not suit your aunt's ways.'
'No,' said Frances, 'I suppose not. It's only really the Harpers I care about,' she added to herself. 'And now,' she went on thinking, 'with this muddle about the old lady at Robin Redbreast—if their mother doesn't want her to know about them, perhaps it's best for Jacinth not to see them much. And I'll have to forget what Margaret told me, after I've written to mamma. I want to remember itexactlyto tell her.'
She sighed a little. Almost for the first time Frances began to realise that, even when one is possessed of the purest motives and the best intentions, life may be a complicated business. Right and wrong are not always written up before us on conspicuous finger-posts, as we fancy in childhood will be the case. There are shades and modifications, wisdom and unwisdom; apparently, though, thank God,only 'apparently,' conflicting duties, whose rival claims it is not always easy to measure. And it is not till some stages later in our journey that we come to see how our own prejudices or shortsightedness or self-will are really at the root of the perplexity. For God demands no impossibilities. As has been quaintly said, 'He neither expects us to be in two places at once, nor to put twenty-five hours' work into twenty-four.'
To do what is the least agreeable to us, though far from an invariable rule, is often a safe one. Frances would have liked to run up-stairs to the nursery, and to sit down there and then to the long letter to 'mamma,' to the outpouring of confidence to the almost unknown friend she had learned to trust. But common-sense and a certain docility, which was strongly developed in her, in spite of her superficial self-assertion and blunt, even abrupt outspokenness, made her yield to Phebe's advice.
And it was a neat, composed-looking little maiden who met her aunt and sister on their return half an hour or so later, somewhat tired and fagged by their rather tedious afternoon's work.
'I am glad you are back, my dear,' said her aunt. 'I wished afterwards I had made a point of your not keeping Phebe waiting, as I had forgotten that Eugene would be alone, and I am always afraid of any accident with the fire, or anything of that kind.'
'I did keep her waiting a little,' said Frances, honestly. 'But I've been back a good while. I've heard Eugene his Sunday lessons: he knows them quite well. And I think tea is quite ready, Aunt Alison.'
'That's right,' Miss Mildmay replied. 'You may ring for it to be brought in, while Jacinth and I take off our things.—Francesseems none the worse for her visit,' she added to her elder niece as they made their way up-stairs. 'I shall not object to her going to Ivy Lodge sometimes in this way, if it does not make her rough or hoydenish.'
'I don't think there is much fear of her learning anything of that kind from theboarders,' said Jacinth, gratified by her aunt's confidential tone. 'I shouldn't be so sure of the day-scholars, but you know, Aunt Alison, the Miss Scarletts keep them very distinct. It is a—well,' with a little smile, 'a great compliment for Francie to be asked this way.'
'The Miss Scarletts have plenty of discrimination,' her aunt replied. 'They know that my nieces—your father's daughters—going to any school, especially a day-school, is a great compliment to that school.'
It was not often that Miss Mildmay indulged in any expression of her underlying family pride. It suited Jacinth's ideas 'down to the ground.'
'Yes, of course,' she agreed quietly. 'Still the schoolisan exceptional one. I think Frances is learning to understand some things better,' she went on. 'But of course she isveryyoung for her age. At first she was far too ready to rush into bosom friendships and enthusiastic admirations and all that sort of thing. And she perfectly adores games,' with a slight intonation of contempt.
'Youdon't?' said Miss Mildmay, smiling. 'There is nothing to be ashamed of in liking games, if not allowed to go too far.'
'I think it must be born in some people,' said Jacinth. 'It isn't laziness that makes me not care for them. For I love riding and long walks and dancing. Only, somehow, I feel so mucholder.'
'I can sympathise with you,' said her aunt. 'I have never been able to care for any game that ever was invented. So I have not been victimising you this afternoon, you are sure?'
'Oh indeed, no,' replied Jacinth heartily.
On the whole the domestic atmosphere in Market Square Place seemed more genial.